LevelUP: an 8-bit novel by Micah Joel. Author's definitive online edition.

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Chapter Thirty

2-6: Getting Personal

INVENTORY:

* MYSTERIOUS SCROLL

* STEALTH CLOAK

* IVORY TORCH OF THE ENDLESS FIRE

* TROPHY 2

* MOUSE

=== SKILLS: ===

* SWIM

* FOOTGLIDE

How quickly people adapt to circumstances. Already, walking seems unbearably more primitive than a graceful footglide.

“Why didn’t you set me up from the beginning with the ability to coast all the way to the citadel?” Max asks.

Bode weaves an uneven path as she progresses along the road. She seems happier, like she should be whistling or something. After her looping path orbits her way around Max two or three more times, she replies: “Two reasons, mostly. The first is that, mentally, it takes a lot out of your frail body.”

“My frail body?”

“It will manifest as a dropping blood glucose level in your mortal shell. If it gets too low, you’ll pass out, and quite likely, pass on.”

Oh.

It has to be a coincidence, or the power of suggestion, but as Bode says this, Max notices a queasy feeling deep inside. He can almost make out an evaporating sheen of sweat on his upper lip.

He’s never given thought to whether he’s diabetic—if he turned out to be, it’s not like he could get anything resembling reasonable treatment while living in the camps. A growing sense of unease intrudes on his thoughts. The immersion of this world is stronger, though, and a change in his surroundings grabs him back.

The path flattens out for a short stretch, marked by a raised pedestal with a rectangular stone carving resting atop. It’s a partly unfurled book, opened to a crude map of what looks like the inside of the citadel. There’s an engraving underneath. It says, “DON’T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU READ”—the same message from Hadley’s scroll.

Max stoops to inspect. The stone is warm to the touch and smooth like tent canvas that had seen more than its fair share of use.

“Don’t touch that!” Bode shrieks, but it’s too late. Max pulls his hand back—or tries to. It’s stuck there, and he couldn’t let go if he wanted to. And he doesn’t want to.

With one hand on the stone, it’s as if Max can see all the way to the citadel, where an identical pedestal stands nearby the main gates. It’s like he’s standing there. Next to Hemera.

She sees him, and her eyes narrow. “You again,” she says.

The immediacy messes with Max’s perception. Some part of him is now in three places at once: his original body at Doctor Ariely’s office, and at two places in the game. He needs to do something before this goes sideways… Why is Hemera outside the citadel anyway?

The nearby portcullis is closed with a heavy gate. “You don’t know how to get in,” Max says. As the import of this hits him, a smile spreads across his face. She’s just as in the dark as he is.

“Let me handle this. You’ve been nothing but trouble for me.”

“Why thank you, ma’am,” Max says. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve said about me.” He attempts a mock bow, but between the petrified foot and the immobilized hand, it’s clumsy.

“You’re injured. Pity,” Hemera says.

“You seem in fine shape, ma’am. Pity.”

“What a tongue you have on you,” Hemera says. She looks thoughtful for a moment before continuing. “Here are my demands.”

“Demands?” Max sputters.

“Yes, my demands. You withdraw immediately.”

“If I don’t?”

“Then I’ll do something long overdue. I’ll call my clean-up crew to cleanse the refugee camp you hold so dear,” Hemera says.

All she does is hurt people. “You wouldn’t.”

Hemera taps her ear. “Order the cleanse at Lockheed. Yes, as soon as possible.” She cracks her knuckles and smiles.

A sharp intake of breath feels like a stab to the heart.

As if reading his mind, Hemera says, “I’d like you to savor the scene. See in your mind the bulldozers arriving within the hour, working their way to the top of the hill, and scouring away the filth.” She smirks. “Another pustule scraped off the face of the earth as far as I’m concerned.”

For a long second, Max considers surrender. Hemera wields her overwhelming power ruthlessly, without a second thought about the suffering of others. She always gets what she wants. People who stand in her way only get flattened. Better to live on to fight another day, right?

There had been a time when Max would’ve accepted that argument. Max had so few possessions, that losing the camp wouldn’t make much of a difference. People would find somewhere to live, even if it meant spreading out to the other camps.

But that was before Max’s father entered the picture. The trophy quest meant more than the camp, as significant as that was. It meant Max finding his father. Whatever was going on here was important enough for Hadley Root to have hidden the pieces in a way that his son was uniquely qualified to find. How could he give up on that?

Nope, this was personal.

“I’m coming for the trophies,” Max tells Hemera. “All of them. For your sake, you’d better hope you make it out before I get there.”

Hemera’s face cycles through shock, confusion, and searing rage. Quite possibly, nobody has ever spoken to her this way.

Then something else registers on her face. Only for a second, but Max spots it. Fear. Hemera’s position may not be as secure as she outwardly projects. But it’s just a momentary flicker, gone as fast as it arrives.

Hemera glances to the side and nods. Was somebody else with her? She smiles again, and the temperature drops by twenty degrees. “I’m going to enjoy watching this,” she says.

Something the approximate size and weight of a bag of bricks clobbers Max, and he breaks contact with the monument. Bode lands on top of him in a pile of flailing limbs. The world seems to stretch and contract again as Max’s POV snaps back to his current location in the game.

“I correctly suspected you couldn’t break contact with your own strength. We need to keep moving,” Bode says. “This doesn’t bode well.”

Max groans from the pain while Bode grabs him by the wrist and yanks him ahead. Disconcertingly, she no longer threads her careful path around whatever obstacles she had been seeing before. What is she so worried about? She pumps her feet like a speed skater, gliding herself now, covering vast stretches with each stride. The whipping wind stings Max’s face. He wishes he had goggles.

A sheen of sweat on Max’s forehead doesn’t go away with the wind. His legs feel trembly, gradually dissolving into jelly. Moving this quickly is taking a toll. Nothing he can do but worry about the cost later.

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